He searched the cabinets above and below the kitchen counter. When he couldn’t find a vase, he filled a glass pitcher halfway and placed the rose in it. The dark green stem was speckled with the lighter green wounds I’d made.
We returned to the front porch and sat on the swing.
—You know I wasn’t going to suck you off in the middle of that restaurant, he said.
—I know. I’m sorry.
I reached over to take his hand. He let me do it, but he didn’t apply much pressure back.
—I like you, Miles.
—Me too, I said too quickly.
He released my hand to dig a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit up. I waited for him to take my hand again.
—I really do, he said. But I don’t need a boyfriend who can’t sit in a restaurant with me for lunch.
—Was that like a test, asking me to meet you there?
—You’re not listening.
I was confused, clammy. He saw this and put his hand on my knee, lightly, anonymously.
—We can be friends, he said. I want to be your friend, Miles. I’m not the only gay boy at King.
—But I don’t want anybody else.
—I—, he began.
And then he saw my face.
—Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry.
A row of stationary bikes stood against one of the shorter walls of the weight room. The bikes were technically intended for walking woundeds who weren’t allowed to run and needed some form of cardio, but they were used primarily by Coach Zeller and his assistants. While the coaches sweated and pedaled, they would bullshit with players they were fond of and stare hard at the slackers, taking micro-measurements of the temperature of the team and, when necessary, making interventions to adjust it.
Zeller was riding one of those bikes on Monday morning when we walked in for team lift. He was already deep into his workout and raining sweat onto the rubber mats under the bike.
—Mornin’! he said as we split up for our stations.
—Mornin’, Coach.
—Heard you got after it Saturday night, Jimbo.
—Lies, Coach. You know I was home doing needlepoint.
—Mm-hmm. Kendrick, how’s your daddy?
—Good, sir.
—You tell him I’m prayin’ for him, hear?
—Yes sir.
Coach Zeller looked at Reshawn and watched him a moment.
—Hey there, Reshawn.
—Hey, Coach.
—What you up to this afternoon?
Players sliding weights onto their universal bars glanced at Reshawn. By now it was public knowledge that Reshawn had skipped every scrimmage since he’d blown off Errol the month before. The latest Skellie was scheduled for three o’clock today.
—My professor’s giving a talk in Chapel Hill.
—Talk? Zeller said. Like a presentation?
—Yes sir.
—That a part of your class?
—It’s … no.
—Well, good. Then he won’t mind if you come to Skellie instead.
—I thought Skellie was voluntary.
—Sure is. But so’s that talk, from the sound of it.
—You’re saying I have to go?
Zeller laughed, pinching the sweat from his eyes.
—Time is yours, Reshawn! NCAA says so. But I know your teammates sure would appreciate one of their leaders showing up to a team activity.
The talk in Chapel Hill meant more to Reshawn than he let on. Professor Grayson was presenting a paper on CSK that Reshawn had been helping him with all summer. Reshawn was listed as coauthor, the first academic citation he ever received. But he knew that Zeller was still sore over his incredible request to skip a spring practice to drive to Savannah, a soreness that hadn’t been alleviated one bit by his conspicuous refusal to attend Skellie. Despite Zeller’s lighthearted tone now, it was clear our coach was at the far edge of his patience, and Reshawn knew better than to risk finding out what awaited him beyond that edge. So he responded with a sullen “Yes sir” and finished sliding weights onto his universal bar.
Come 2:45 that afternoon, Reshawn was back in the Hay with the rest of us, dressing for Skellie. He was quiet as we walked down to the practice fields, quiet as we stretched.
Errol was stretching near Reshawn. He saw Reshawn’s face and tried to cheer him up.
—McCoy, he said. What’s that talk in Chapel Hill about?
—Hermeneutics.
It wasn’t really. Reshawn had just reached for the most abstruse word he could think of to baffle Errol.
—Herman Who? Errol said.
—You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it.
Players yelled out, “Ohhh!” and waited to see what Errol would say.
—Shit, Errol said, laughing drily. I guess that’s my bad.
—What’s your “bad”? Reshawn said.
—Huh?
—What do you mean by that phrase?
—It means … it means I’m sorry.
—Then why didn’t you say, “I’m sorry”? Why’d you say it was your “bad”? —Look—
—You from Compton, Errol? Inglewood?
—LA.
—LA like the city?
—Huh?
—Huh? You say that a lot, don’t you, you fucking retard. Maybe when I need something from you I should call out “Huh!” and your dumb ass will—
—McCoy, Devonté said. Be easy, man.
The ones lined up for the first play. What added insult to injury about Reshawn’s being pressured to attend was that tailbacks had a minimal role during Skellie. Like I said, the drill was geared toward the passing game, and the most Reshawn would be doing was run little routes and then stand idle in the near field while passes sailed to wide receivers and tight ends. Which is why, when the ball was hiked and Reshawn ran a button route, he didn’t expect the pass. But Errol didn’t even glance at other receivers before he threw Reshawn the ball. No, not threw, launched, and not at Reshawn’s chest, either, but straight at his face. Reshawn was lucky he got his hands up in time to punch the ball away, or it would have broken his nose.
Huddle, clap, another short throw to Reshawn. This was somehow harder than the first, and low this time, drilling straight toward Reshawn’s balls. Had Reshawn missed the catch, he’d have fallen groaning to the grass.
Errol threw to Reshawn every other play that scrimmage, and he made each
